by B French
“What do you think you’ll do after?” Steve asked, just loud enough to be heard over the drone of the engines.
Brian looked back to Shawna, slightly glowing while she read her magazine. “No expectations,” he sighed, leaning back in the direction of the aisle. “She has a tremendous career ahead of her; much more important and lucrative than mine.”
“A budding archaeologist could always use a good photographer,” Steve returned with a twinkle in his eye.
Brian just smiled, “We’ll see.”
The two hour stopover and change of planes in Mexico City was tiring with crowds, humidity and little air-conditioning. The remaining flight to Seattle was uneventful, and after a steak dinner, and several small bottles of red wine, Steve was difficult to get motivated. He was near the last individual off the plane and only followed by the attendants and pilots. Getting through customs was always a concern, and with the special paperwork and designation of the Bill of Lading, for the Museums artifact, Customs supervisors were a necessity.
An hour later, Rose welcomed them. She was glowing with her radiant, red hair cascading down over her shoulders, a smile from ear to ear that exposed her near perfect teeth. With open arms and a suggestion for a night cap and snacks at ‘Lolita’s South of the Border Cantina’, a favorite of theirs in Vancouver, they all headed down by the waterfront. Enchiladas and quesadillas were the best you could get anywhere.
After several beers and tummies full, they all rolled out of the restaurant into the night, feeling no pain. A fresh, cool spray of mist, so absent in tropical Belize, caressed their upturned faces. Heading out from One-Post-Alley, they turned on to Pike Street and down the incline to the market. Trying to see the lights of the Space Needle, not visible from there, and obscured by low cloud cover, they wandered arm-inarm to the car. Across the Alaskan Way to the pier beyond, they found a parking space and clambered out, giggling and joking into the light bustle of the waterfront walkway. A seagull circled, and then squawked in anticipation of a snack that was nonexistent and disappeared into the night’s anonymity along the jetty. All that was left was the hollow sound of traffic that resounded along the wet pavement beneath the overpass and bestir along the freeway. The evening was brisk, such a contrast to the humid, sticky nights of the previous weeks. The four strolled down passed the Aquarium to the Water Front Arcade and down the boardwalk to the open bay.
“It’s good to be home.” Shawna whispered, as she slipped her hands around Brian’s waist and pulled him close. She rested her head against the black tea shirt that was exposed between the open flaps of his damp, leather jacket, her back against the wooden hand rail. Snuggling close, they absorbed each other’s warmth.
Rose and Steve continued to the end of the pier and gazed out into a fledgling mist that caressed the timid moon light. As romantic as the setting was, Rose sensed the need for Steve to get home. After a cuddle and kisses, they talked briefly about Steve favoring his leg and the circumstance that led to its condition, and decided it was time to go. Returning up the damp boardwalk, they settled in close to Shawna and Brian, said their goodbyes, made the arrangements to off-load the luggage, and disappeared from sight across the boulevard and down to Pier 69, to get their car.
Brian and Shawna slowly edged their way along the dock and remained to watch the moon continue its allusive pantomime amid the low cover of cloud; its fractured reflection sparkling in the pools of water that lay in the cupped recesses of the wharf’s planking.
“Ixchel has still not caught yet her lover,” Brian whispered in Shawna’s ear, watching the mystical, little fishes trying to lift her body to the moon. She returned a smile and said nothing in response.
“We’d better go,” he suggested and bent to give her a kiss. “We still haven’t confirmed our reservations at the hotel.”
They slowly walked the boardwalk, back to Alaskan Way, that ran the length of the shore. Flagging a taxi near Broad Street, they nestled in the back seat as they drove to Westlake Blvd. and the Seattle Marriot. From a short distance up the terraced, waterfront buildings, a large, black, SUV rested, seeming vacant till it pulled in behind them. Through the tinted, glass windows, two, grey suited, well groomed individuals, a man and a woman, remained alert and determined. They had sat recording, with a high resolution camera, the four unsuspecting lovers. Now, the two remaining lovers were being scrutinized, oblivious to all except the emotions that welled within them.
Belmopan
The lockdown of the catacombs in Belmopan, was of little consequence to the Custodian. He had needed weeks of rest to allow the recent marrow transplant and the injection of stem cells into his spinal column to take effect. His skin was beginning to clear and the tear ducts in his eyes were now able to flush the stinging poisons from his system as his kidneys began to function again.
Andreas, his male secretary and assistant, had taken care of the sordid business of Doug and instituted the necessary precautions to ensure no backlash would result from the accusations and circumstances that alluded to the Archival Ministries involvement in his death. All security cameras had undergone a temporary reboot at approximately the same time as his arrival, for a systems update; no evidence could be culminated. He too would undergo a session to revitalize his immune system. He was a centenarian, but would have to wait. The sources of fetal-cell extracts had been temporarily halted from their source, due to chance association with the catacombs. It would not go well for the research that conducted in private, autonomy for decades, to end.
From before Andreas’ association with the custodian, the lab had functioned well and in obscurity. Andreas became a necessary addition to the operation with the advent of computers and synchronized surveillance that could be conducted from anywhere in the world. His adeptness with emerging, electronic systems and his penchant for calculation, enabled him to run the worldwide conglomerate of pharmaceutical and real-estate holdings from Belize, while its head office appeared to be in New York, leaving the custodian to meddle in his medical procedures and play at world politics. It had only been recently, that any threat had arisen to impede the stability of the catacombs, and they would be taken care of in due time. There was also the gene pool of the Native American girl that still intrigued him.
From inside the plushley, decorated, sitting room of the Custodian’s private quarters, the creature contemplated the release of his treasured, jade bowl. As a precautionary measure, to ease the heat of inquiry, it was a slight inconvenience for him to have it sit in a glass case not an hour’s drive from where he sat. This situation could easily be altered if the treasure was to make an unscheduled stop on its way to an ulterior destination not of his liking.
had been so successfully completely isolated with
“Have you taken necessary steps to find and follow our two love birds?” the custodian asked of his assistant sitting close by at an oversized, leather trimmed, antique, mahogany desk.
“They were located at the Seattle airport and are now being followed to their private residences.”
“Don’t forget, we do not require the girl as of yet, so let her wander free for the time being. Collect all the intelligence and people associated with her and upload it to the data base.” He considered for a moment, “The Canadian, I want dead.”
Andreas nodded as acknowledgement without saying a word. He would contact one of the board members of the Northwestern Region, and have it done.
Seattle
Inside the foyer of the Seattle Marriott, the woman in the crumpled, grey suit sat patiently in a high-back chair, waiting for a sighting of Brian or Shawna. The morning sun shining through the overhead skylights bothered her. Having spent a restless night, taking shifts with her male counter-part, she was tired and wondered at her manager’s insistence of her accompanying the floor’s security guard on this excursion and stakeout. A chance sighting of the targets with the convenience check-out in place, and the fact they could rent a car right from their hotel room, made the likelihood
of seeing them fifty-fifty. A small, ear piece and microphone on her lapel were the only contact she had with Delbert, her partner, who was lord-knows-where.
Nodding off peacefully behind the wheel of the SUV tucked inconspicuously behind a cement pillar, her partner, by chance happened to notice a couple climb into a late model sedan in the car rental section of the garage. Perking up, he got sight of the almost black hair, and dark complexion, of the female passenger.
“Hop to it Sandy, they’re on their way.”
“Way, where,” she replied, gathering her magazine and papers from the table before her.
Loosely grabbing them up, she stuffed them under her arm and plodded to the glass, front doors. Legs scissoring rapidly back and forth, impeded by her tight, knee-length skirt, she burst from the entranceway. Pausing, Sandy looked left and then right to determine the direction of Delbert’s pick-me-up, she also caught a glimpse of Brian, their target, behind the wheel of the grey-silver, compact sedan. Waving a hand full of papers at her driver, who finally caught glimpse of her, Delbert skidded to a stop, picked her up and squealed after Brian and Shawna. Almost a block behind, and now with a red light stopping them, they began to tense, more from lack of sleep than the need to be effectual. Impatient with the length of the wait-time, Delbert jumped the light and started in after the sedan. Within a block, the red and blue flashing lights of a police cruiser followed them with unrelenting persistence.
“Come on Delbert,” Sandy cautioned, slapping her thighs, “we have no choice but to stop.”
Delbert pulled over with the persona of a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. With the resolve of a deflated balloon, he watched as several blocks away, the sedan disappeared behind a coffee bar. As he handed his license to the officer through his opened window, to his astonishment, the couple parked and exited their car and sauntered to the fenced-in area of the café’. After ten minutes, the officer brought back the license and a ticket and waited patiently for Delbert to acknowledge him.
“Delbert,” Sandy whispered, giving him a nudge.
“What!” oblivious to all except the couple getting back inside their vehicle two blocks ahead.
Sandy tipped her head in the direction of the officer, whose face now filled the entire driver’s window.
“Oh, sorry,” he offered, taking the ticket and papers offered with it.
Nearly running over the constable’s toes, Delbert pulled away, careful not to squeal the tires. The officer just stood with hands on his hips, as he watched the black truck pull into the early, morning traffic, without an indicator light flashing.
Following at a safe distance, the two crisscrossed their way through the streets of the downtown area to the freeway on-ramp. Losing sight of the car, they quickly headed up the north ramp to the I-5. Dodging heavy, rush hour traffic, with squealing tires and rocky maneuvers, they eventually caught up to the silver-grey sedan. Elated they had not lost their mark, Delbert and Sandy yelled a “Yahoo!” and backed off to stay hidden behind a transport truck.
Within several minutes of a steady drive, Sandy’s cell chimed and she answered with a “Yes, sir.” After listening intently, she replied with another, “Yes, sir,” and hung up.
“What are you doin Delbert!” Sandy screamed.
“Whatchin you,” he replied.
“You’re supposed to be watchin them!”
In the third lane over, the two of them observed Brian and Shawna driving the off-ramp west to Hwy. 520.
“Ok. Ok,” Delbert screamed, “hang on!”
With no warning or indicators, Delbert weaved and swerved over to the cement guardrail on the western side of the freeway and began to reverse along the shoulder to the exit of 520, half-a-mile back. With horns honking, and Sandy screaming, they eventually made it to the turn off and squealed forward down the ramp and onto the highway. At ninety miles an hour, they sped in wild pursuit. The truck listed frantically and rocked back to stabilization as they entered each lane with breaking action. They eventually got the advantage.
“What was the phone call about?”
“That was my boss, Mr. Katz” Sandy replied.” He wants us to meet up with some more people who will take over from us.”
“And how are we to do that if we have no idea where our targets are or where they’re going.”
“I don’t know Delbert. Just drive.”
He gave a side glance and a childish huff as if to mock her demeanor and continued with the sporadic drive.
“There they are,” Sandy screeched. “They’re turning off on 513. Looks like they’re heading to the university.
“Ok. Gotcha,” Delbert replied, as he slowed and pulled off onto the ramp.
“Ok. I’ll phone my boss back and tell him we’re heading along Montlake Blvd. and onto the university grounds.
As Brian and Shawna crossed over the grated, Montlake Bridge, they were unaware they were being followed. They harbored such relief at being home, and a thousand miles from the incidents of Xunantunich, that they were as carefree as the harbor seals that splashed and coursed through the waters of Union Bay. Turning left on N. E. Pacific Street, they continued passed the science buildings on the left and then turned north on 15th Avenue.
“Don’t lose them Delbert, “came Sandy’s caution as he fell back several car lengths. “They’re turning right.”
“I got it,” Delbert returned with an air of misguided confidence.
They followed patiently passed the Henry Art Gallery, and then on to the Burke Museum of Natural History, without saying a word.
Reminiscing about her previous associations with the Department of Anthropology at the University of Washington, Shawna became filled with anticipation and squeezed Brian’s knee. As they turned into the gates of the University from N E 45th Street, she could feel the excitement of meeting her old friend, Julie.
Shawna, and Julie now the head of the department, had originally met at the dig in Ossette, on a miserable rainy day and had shared a flask of hot tea together. Studying local strains of mollusks, in and around the Puget Sound tidal areas, Julie had been asked by the Anthropological Department, to lend a hand and expertise in the scrutiny of Ossette mollusk shells to help in determining the exact date of the landslide that obliterated the village hundreds of years previous. With no lack of wit and intelligence, the two became good friends, bantering back and forth as they dug, sometimes perilously, amid the muck and refuse that was once a prideful, and prosperous village. Somber moments arose during their professional time together when the remains of Shawna’s ancestor’s bones, and personal artifacts, were uncovered. Prayers were granted by the few remaining Makah elders able to make the trek from Neah Bay and the surrounding area. Very emotional times were spent during the few weeks they worked together at the dig, which only deepened their relationship. Many artifacts were sent back to the University for cataloging, stabilization, and preservation. An approximate time frame of A.D. 1520, was attributed to the devastating slide. Shawna was much comforted by the strong and respectful, mentorial Julie.
“There is a parking lot just to the left if you turn at the next corner passed Gate 2.” Rummaging through her purse for some cash, she handed Brian a twenty.
“Place the ticket on the dash-board,” the attendant smiled, as she handed the ticket to Brian. “You may receive change on your way out;” she continued jokingly, “so don’t lose it.”
Ensuring the car was locked tight, with the small, brown suitcase in-hand, they continued down some steps to a tarmac pathway that led in the direction of Paccar Hall. Approaching the rear of the building, they skipped down a flight of concrete steps, out into the open and Klickitat Lane. Approaching Denny Hall from the west, Brian could see the time-worn, metal grills and lead, sash windows that adorned the lower floors of the timeless institution. Built first of many buildings on the Lake Washington Campus, in 1894, the grandeur of the original architecture was apparent, but needed refreshing. Approaching the three, frontal arches above th
e wide steps that graced its frontal elevation, Denny Hall’s facade was as striking as the day it was dedicated.
Dialing her cell, Shawna sat at the base of the stairs with Brian, waiting for her companion to answer. After several short minutes, a muted scream of delight came tumbling down the stairs and embraced the ecstatic Shawna.
After giggles and tears, Shawna looked toward Brian who stood off to one side watching in quiet amazement while the two embraced and exchanged cordialities. “This is my close friend Brian, Julie,” Shawna sighed, pulling Julie into close proximity to him, far too close for his liking.
“It is a pleasure to meet you,” he replied, stretching his hand toward her in greeting.
“It is also my pleasure to meet you; from what I understand, the man that brought my friend back from the brink of death.” Brian blushed slightly at the inference to his exploits with Steve and the many others.
“Thank you. But I assure you, it is Shawna’s wit and stamina that has us all in a state of awe.”
Julie smiled at his statement and brought her arm back around Shawna’s shoulder pulling her close. Julie was tall enough that her arm fit perfectly above Shawna’s shoulder, which gave the two of them a comfortable look of comradely. She was nearly a head taller than Shawna, and at least ten years her senior. Her sandy-brown hair was tucked up into a loose bun at the back of her head. Solidly built, but not fat, and a face that shone of vitality, her body wiggled in excitement beneath her loose clothes that alluded to her readiness for a hike. Julie gave an heir of ease, and intelligence with no pretention.
Shawna looking down to the hand-held suitcase, gave Julie a nod, “We need to get this upstairs.” Looking back to Brian, she stammered thinking of the protocol that barred all but faculty into the reaches of the Archaeological Department.
Sensing her dilemma, “It’s OK, I’ll head over for coffee at Orin’s and wait till I hear from you.” He glanced toward Paccar Hall and continued, “I have to charge my phone for a while anyway, so don’t hurry. I won’t wander too far.”